When the time comes most of us just lie down. There are some who do not. Will not.

The Fallen

There are ways among the bowersWhere counted numbers pass.Steps nodded by by flowersBut barely stir the grass,As though ethereal notionIs all these ways have known,And yet may some devotionSee drops fallen on the stone.

Wander the streets and sidewalksThat grid and ring the townIn that muted hush the hour unlocksWhen the gibbous moon lies down.There plain on ways desertedBusy throngs may press the lone.Devotion thus concertedSees drops fallen on the stone.

Who will see the land unseenThe counted travel through—They who see our duty clean—And pay the payment due.And who will pass in blindness,Passing free yet often shownSacred markers that remind usOf drops fallen on the stone.